I feel as if there is more that I should remember. In lockdown time is accelerating, it is slowing down, it is oozing and crashing against us in waves. But it’s not lockdown that has given me this feeling. It is my own distance when I should be most present. When I wish to be. I have felt this before—maybe around two years ago now, where I worried I was always catching up. Always a little ahead or behind. And then afterwards wondering, could I have been more in that moment? How could I have been? An earnest question. Some of this is the result of a kind of anxiety, a sensitivity, a natural discomfort trailing behind the parts of me that rush ahead. Some of it is not natural, only made. But perhaps, also, it isn’t that there is more that I should remember—because I remember every detail—but only that I’d like to remember it in a different way. As if I was there. More there. Not beside it. Not next to, or near it. In it (in myself).
No more time
Wanting to apologize but not knowing how. It is no longer time for apologies, no longer time for emails or phone calls, no longer time for text messages or walks with the dog. No more time for misunderstandings, recriminations, litigation. No more time to say the thing I never thought you understood. No more time to ask you how you’re feeling. No more time to be sure that I am right and you are wrong. No more time to be right or wrong. No more time for investigations. No more time to recognize my mistakes, to clarify. No more time to apologize, to make up, to console. No more time to be careful, to be generous, to listen—to feel badly that I could have misunderstood something so profoundly. No more time to get offended. No more time to feel guilt for carrying around those awful feelings for so long, an unjustified anger, an injury that never fully healed (in truth, two). No more time to share. No more time to make you laugh, to comfort, to hold you close. No more time for any of that. Now it’s lost, behind us now—a quiet space that I filled with anger, my outrage, my confusion, my self-righteousness. Even now I want to fill it, with this—an apology that will never reach you, an apology that will take up too much of your time if it does.